


Mo Chridhe

by myriddin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Children, Daddy!Jon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriddin/pseuds/myriddin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sooo….fic totally influenced by Outlander but the plot’s not an Outlander AU. It’s part of a bigger fic I want to write but need to do more research for first. Basically, here’s a JonxSansa snippet set in a vaguely medieval Scotland, with Highlander!Jon and bonus Daddy!Jon. Enjoy!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mo Chridhe

“Dadaidh!”

Jon peeked through hooded lids to see his daughter’s face hovering above him, bright with a smile. Feeling the small, warm weight of her , he fought back a smile of his own so not to give himself away. Scooting over discreetly so he was further away from the edge of the bed, he swiftly flipped over onto his stomach, arching as he moved to give her a light jump into the air, earning a squeal of delight before she landed safely onto his broad back.

“Dadaidh!” she exclaimed again between giggles.

He laughed, rolling back over to catch her in his arms. “Ah, guid mornin, bairn.”

She leaned down to give him a sloppy kiss. “Good morning, Dadaidh.”

He ruffled her auburn hair, earning an affronted frown from little pouting lips as she batted his hands away and sought to smooth down her curls. So like her mother, she was ever a proper little lady.

Jon lazily stretched, leaning his head back to meet the amused eyes of his wife. “An’ guid mornin tae ye, wife.”

Sansa beamed, leaning in to kiss them both. “Good morning, my loves.”

Their daughter took the opportunity to wiggle out of her father’s arms, plopping down hard on his stomach in consequence.

“Oomph!”

“Come, Dadaidh, the sun’s already risen. Uncle Robb and the rest are waitin’ for ye!”

Her dadaidh groaned beneath her.

“Enough, Lya,” Sansa gently chided, “Leave your father be. You’re both getting too old for rough play. Go find Jeyne and see about getting some breakfast.”

Lya obeyed, scrambling off her father and bounding out the door. As soon as she was out of sight, Jon rolled over to spoon his wife. Sansa raised a hand lazily caress the arm that came to wrap around her, smoothing her fingers over the downy hair dotting his forearms and up to the defined muscles of his bicep. The contrasts of his body had always fascinated her, so blatantly, powerfully male, but capable of being so gentle with her.

A heavy hand came to rest on her hip, his lips pressing sweetly to the nape of her neck. “Auld, am I?”

Sansa smirked and wriggled back until her backside was purposely pressed against the cradle of his hips. She could feel the delicious heat of his skin, the strong flex of his thighs as he reflexively jerked against her, through the thin fabric of her shift, the only barrier between them.

“Ay,” she replied cheekily, her smooth English tone mimicking his thick brogue so effectively it was almost unnerving, if he hadn’t been preoccupied by other things. “A rickety old man.”

He pressed her back more firmly against him, growling his reply against her ear. “I think ye ken better. Why else did we nae wake wit’ the dawn?”

“Hmm….I might still need convincing.”

“Oh, I can convince ye, lass.” He emphasized his point with another suggestive flex of his hips and Sansa hummed with approval, reaching back to thread her fingers through his dark curls. She tilted her head toward him and used her hold on his hair to draw his mouth down to hers. They kissed, deep and hungry, Jon’s hand slipping beneath the blankets to begin pushing up the hem of her shift.

The tension between them was suddenly broken by a loud crash from the hallway, followed by a child’s squeal and a hound barking. They broke apart quickly, staring at each other in surprise before they heard the distinct sound of Jeyne chiding their daughter for whatever mischief she had caused, and relaxed with the realization the capable nursemaid wouldn’t need their intervention.

Jon chuckled, letting himself fall back against the bed. “That one's a load o' trouble.”

Sansa laughed and looked at him wryly. “And what will you do when there’s another?”

“May God help me then,” he replied, with such deadpan delivery Sansa had to laugh again, bracing a hand against her middle as she rolled back onto her side and allowed Jon to support her as she came to sit on the edge of the bed. She smiled as she felt her husband scoot up behind her and settle his hands on her swollen midriff. “An’ how’s the babe fairing”

“He fairs well. He’s been awake quite awhile,” she guided his hands lower, “Here.”  
  
He grinned broadly at the strong kick he felt against his palm. She leaned back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “He’ll be a strong one. Just like his father.”

He hummed thoughtfully, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “How can ye be so certain it’s a lad? I’d be plenty pleased wi’ another lass.”

She gave him a slow, enigmatic smile, full of that feminine mystery his sex wasn’t ever meant to decipher. “I know, but it’s a son this time for certain. Mothers knew these things, Jon.”

He kissed her sweetly, but she soon playfully shoved him away. “Lya was right, my love. You did promise to accompany the hunting party. You shouldn’t keep my brother waiting much longer.”

Jon huffed but obeyed, climbing to his feet to make his way to the clothing chest at they kept at the end of the bed. Sansa bit her lip as her eyes strayed appreciatively to the taut flanks of his bare backside, and she could hear his chuckle of amusement. “I can feel yer eyes, lass,” he informed her as he pulled a woolen tunic over his head and with a pile of clothing in his arms, returned to her.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied breezily, reaching up to secure the length of cloth he had thrown over his shoulder with the wolf’s head brooch she had gifted him with on their wedding day, while he buckled the thick belt holding up the pleats of tartan falling around his knees, then slipped into his deerskin boots.

Unlike the Tully clansmen he would be riding with, he didn’t have the need for a hunting plaid, the muted gray and light blue of Clan Snow fulfilling the purpose where the Tully red and blue would not. The subtle colors paired handsomely with his fair skin, complimenting his quiet character in ways the bolder Tully tartan never could. It was why she had denied his query of whether she wanted him to begin wearing the Tully plaid after they married- they lived on Tully lands, Clans Tully and Snow were allies, but it was to Sansa- and the Starks of Winterfell by extension- that Jon had sworn himself. They were vows he had never once broken.

With a familiarity born of well-known routine, she turned away from him, raising her arms so he could slide her nightgown up and off. His fingers lightly stroked along the arch of her back before he pulled a fresh shift over her head, smoothing the garment down around her waist and thighs.

She sat back on the bed and he knelt at her feet to help with her stockings. “Are ye certain ye do nae wish me tae stay?”

Sansa sighed. “Husband, I love you with every depth of my being, but if you’ll drive us both daft if you continue to coddle me.”

Jon nodded sheepishly at the gentle reprimand and helped her to her feet, the pair repeating their earlier process with her dress. Her lips twitched up into a smile as she felt him press a sweet kiss to the nape of her neck, before he deftly tied the laces of the bodice, knotting them securely but lightly, yielding to the girth of her middle. He wrapped a tartan shawl around her shoulders, admitting softly, “I’ll still miss ye terribly.”

She turned in the circle of his arms, cupping his face soothingly. “It’s only a few days, Jon. But we will miss you.”

He smiled, a warm, crooked smile, dipping his head to kiss her. His thumb brushed against her cheek, causing that visceral reaction she had come to associate with his touch, the potent yearning to feel his calloused hands against her skin. She shivered, reluctantly pulling away before they could become too lost in one another again.

“Beloved,” she whispered affectionately.

“Mo chridhe,” he returned just as softly, with that warm reverence he had always shown in their tender moments. He pecked her brow, donned his head of dark curls with a heather-gray bonnet, and took his leave.

From their second-story window, Sansa watched her husband sprint toward the crowd of men and horses gathered in the courtyard. She watched his fellows greet him, likely japing at him for his tardiness based on the way he was ruefully shaking his head. Petite and dark-haired, the first figure to greet him could only be Arya, who, under their uncle Brynden’s tutelage, had grown to ride and work a bow as good as any of the Tully warriors.  
  
Robb, his copper tresses gleaming in the early morning sunlight, clapped his good-brother on the shoulder before allowing Jon to expertly mount Tairneach, his favorite palfrey. He must have then whistled, for a streak of white fur came bounding across the yard to come to Jon’s side- Ghost, Jon’s wolf-blooded hound, whose fierce appearance contrasted with how gentle the animal was capable of being with Lya.

As if feeling her eyes on him, Jon raised his head and spotted her, raising his hand in farewell. Sansa returned his wave, watching until the company rode through the gate and disappeared from sight. With a light heart, she then turned away from the window, a hand resting protectively on her middle, determined to search out her mischievous daughter.


End file.
